Blind Spot
by howmoriartystolechristmas
Summary: Sophie Walters may seem like a perfectly innocent assistant to the great Sherlock Holmes, but her loyalties lie elsewhere. In this Great Game, who will be the first to fall? IrenexOC, MollyxOC
1. A Study in Pink

_Don't fuck this up._

Sophie Walters frowned, and slipped her phone back into her pocket. The matte black door to 221B Baker Street stood in front of her. She gave a short knock and drew her hand back into the warmth of her coat pocket.

A dulled yell sounded from inside – _Mrs Hudsooon!_ – and an elderly lady answered the door, flustered.

"Ah, dear," the lady crooned, "you must be here for the secretary job."

"I am, yeah."

Mrs. Hudson gave a sweet smile and ushered her into the warm hallway. A narrow set of stairs lay directly in front, and Mrs. Hudson gently pushed her up.

Beyond the wide open door leading to the flat was a living room, complete with ratty armchairs, coffee tables, and massive cardboard boxes littering the floor.

A middle-aged man in a blue plaid shirt and jeans, leaning heavily on a crutch, hobbled over to greet her.

"Mr. Holmes?"

He barked out a short laugh. "I should hope not. He's just taking his sweet time. Doctor John Watson," he held out his free hand to shake.

Soph took it and smiled warmly. "I didn't realize Mr. Holmes was…"

He took the hint, blinking awkwardly. "Why does every- No, he's not. Well, I don't know that he's not, but I know that I'm not, and, uh…" He trailed off and Soph pushed down the disappointment, gingerly taking a seat on a worn, red armchair with a Union Jack pillow.

He sighed, collapsing into a chair of his own, finally glancing up as a tall, dark-haired gentleman bustled into the room.

"Mr. Holmes? I'm Sophie Walters, here for the job listing about an assistant."

He furrowed his brows and looked her over silently. His hair sat in heavy curls around his forehead, and his highly angular face was tense in focus.

As soon as it came, the look cleared and he nodded at her. "Please sit."

She blinked, looking down at the armchair she was currently sitting in. She shuffled a little, and he moved on.

"I need someone who can deal with all the boring, ordinary stuff that comes with solving cases. I am a consulting detective, you see, and while I thrive in the detective area, the administration of consulting is a waste of my time. You'll be taking down cases – turning down the boring ones, of course – and communicating with Scotland Yard once I ultimately solve them.

"You're a detective?" Her… _boss_ had failed to mention this, only that he was a highly intelligent individual. "So, you find clues and stuff?"

He rolled his eyes. "Yes, I find clues, _and stuff_ ," he added derisively. "For example," he ignored the huff that came from Watson, "I knew from the moment you stepped in here that you recently graduated university, though clearly not with the grades you wanted. You have a large circle of friends, but you never spend time with them. You're a pianist, but not for a living. You have no job currently, and evidently nowhere to stay, as you've been staying over at your boyfriend's place the past few nights, borrowing his toiletries and not sleeping well. Although he is clearly gay, judging by the strawberry shower gel he keeps at his flat."

John shook his head in embarrassment, but a grin tugged its way onto Sophie's face. "She is gay," she admitted, trying in vain to push away the smile as the man stared at her, furrowing his brow. "You got the rest all spot on, Mr. Holmes, but it's my girlfriend that's gay, not my boyfriend."

Sherlock huffed, then stared at her. "Don't you want to know how I knew all these things? How I deduced them?"

She considered. "Do I need to know to do the job?"

He blinked at her, sniffed, and deftly moved on. "You're hired." A pause. "I'll be in contact. Mrs. Hudson will show you out."

Sensing the conversation was over, she gave a grateful smile, and walked out.

Soph took a steadying breath before knocking on the polished black door. Through the frosted pane she could see a figure rushing down the stairs.

Kate answered the door and ushered Sophie in, surreptitiously checking the street for anyone who might have followed her. Satisfied, she took Sophie's coat and led her into Irene's office.

Irene was in a white suit and skirt, dark red lipstick outlining the devious grin on her face.

"Employed, are we?"

"He does hate being proved wrong, doesn't he?" Sophie would've sat, only she hadn't received the offer. Standing awkwardly in front of the desk, keeping her eyes down, she cleared her throat. "Look, he's clearly a genius, and I can't imagine three years of acting school will be…"

She trailed off, confused. Irene had lost the colour in her cheeks and the spark in her eyes. Her gaze was focused behind Soph, as a floorboard creaked in the doorway.

"It's adorable that you think you have a choice," an Irish drawl sounded behind her.

She fell silent, eyes on the floor. The creaks were closer now, a slow pace as he moved up behind her. His breath was hot on her neck.

"Daddy will be very angry if you don't comply. No, not angry, just…disappointed," he finished, his voice a song in her ear. She could see him out the corner of her eye now. Irene still hadn't said a word since he'd come in.

"I," she coughed out the shakiness in her voice, "I swear I won't let you down, sir."

"I should hope not."

Irene met eyes with him and nodded slightly. "Sophie, you go wait in the playroom now. I'll be with you shortly."

"Yes, ma'am."

Refusing to pull her gaze from the floor, Soph turned away from the presence beside her and hurried out the door and down the hall.

She could hear their voices, mere murmurs of sound rather than words, and finally let herself shiver.  
It wasn't the first time she had seen Moriarty, but it certainly was the first time speaking to him. It was like having a polite conversation with a crocodile, knowing he'll go in for the kill whenever he feels like it.

As she slipped off her clothing and folded it into a pile in the conveniently placed wicker basket, she cursed Sherlock Holmes.

Of course he had no idea what was coming to him, but he must've done something awful to demand the wrath of one James Moriarty.

Sherlock had recently moved to 221B Baker Street (by recently, he said, he meant the day of the interview) and it was clear to see by the sheer volume of _stuff_ lying around. Dr. Watson was humming and hawing about it, but he was a nice enough fellow, and between the two of them they had cleared enough space to sit on some threadbare armchairs and have a cup of tea.

Sherlock had been rushing about for the past hour or so, beakers full of strange liquids and solutions lining the kitchen bench, some of them smoking gently.

"Any, ah, interesting cases yet?"

She shrugged at John. "I still can't quite work out what exactly he means by 'interesting'. I think it must be somewhere between complicated and grisly. I think he's a bit annoyed that rather than murder, everyone's been killing themselves nowadays. You hear about that?"

He nodded. "Such a strange world, three people offing themselves in the exact same way for no reason at all. A shame, re-"

"Four." Sherlock was standing at the window which looked out onto the street. "There's been a fourth, and there's something different this time."

An unfamiliar man came bounding up the steps. "Lauriston Gardens!"

"What's different about this one?"

"You know how they don't leave a note? This one did. Will you come?"

Sherlock considered. "Who's on forensics?"

"Anderson."

He scoffed. "Anderson won't work with me. I'll bring my assistant." He gestured lazily to Soph, who awkwardly waved. "Not in a police car, I'll be right behind."

The man sighed gratefully, and hurried back down the stairs.

The three of them waited expectantly, and when the door clicked downstairs, Sherlock grinned and pumped his fists in excitement.

John simply sat in shock, while Soph tried to ignore him and started putting on her coat.

As the unlikely pair bundled up in winter woollies, Sherlock turned and stared at John. "Get Mrs. Hudson to make you a cup of tea or something. Don't wait up," and with that, he rushed out the door.

Soph was just about to follow when he abruptly turned back to John. "You're a doctor. In fact, you're an army doctor."

"Yes."

"Any good?"

John stood and puffed up his chest. "Very good."

Sherlock began monologuing at John. Sophie was very aware of time, so she left them to it and broke out onto the street to hail a taxi.

A glossy black car finally pulled up as Sherlock joined her, and behind him, John. The three bundled into the cab, Sherlock barked directions, and they were on their way.

Sherlock, oblivious to the questioning gazes, had his face buried in his phone. Soph and John shared a bemused look and she shrugged.

John cleared his throat expectantly, and Sherlock looked up. "You've got questions," he stated.

John grinned, and began interrogating the consulting detective about what he did and how. Since none of this was news to her, Soph quietly pulled out her phone, angling it away from the two men squeezed in to the left of her.

 _Lauriston Gardens. Apparently there's a note._

It was only a few moments before a little bubble popped up in reply.

 _Find a reason to leave before them. We'll pick you up._

She locked her phone, leaning back in her seat and gazing out the window at the rushing neon scenery. It would be easy enough to pull off, of course, but the use of 'we' concerned her. She knew what it meant.

When they arrived, both men were still yammering away.

"…and Harry's short for Harriet," John had finished, purposefully striding as fast as he could with his crutch.

Sherlock stopped in her tracks. "Harriet's your sister," he concluded, cursing himself.

Sophie grinned at him. "All the genius in that brain of yours and gender is the blind spot, huh?"

Before he could answer, John butted in. "What is it I'm supposed to be doing here?"

Sherlock dismissed him, and approached a line of plastic police tape being manned by a policewoman, who scowled when she saw the detective arrive.

"What are you doing here?"

"I was invited."

"Why?"

"I think he wants me to take a look," he drawled, lifting the tape and ushering John and Sophie under.

"Why?" the lady repeated sarcastically.

Sherlock turned and looked at her impatiently. "These are my colleagues, Doctor John Watson and Miss Sophie Walters."

She scoffed at him. "Colleagues? How did _you_ get colleagues? Did he follow you home?" she questioned John before turning to Soph. "Remember: just say no."

Soph turned to see both men already heading into the building. She shrugged. "Bold of you to assume he'd try." She cracked a grin at the lady.

"Fair point," she conceded. "Sally Donovan."

Seeing that Sherlock and John clearly hadn't noticed her absence, she leaned in. "What's his deal, anyway?" In her experience, the best secrets came from those who hated you enough to find them.

Sally leant back against the police car. "He gets off on it," she whispered conspiratorially, "murder and shit. Goes all psycho when nobody gets killed. The more gruesome, the better for him. The forensics team have a bet running on when he'll finally snap and start offing people himself."

Soph considered this. Sally frowned at her. "Why are you even with him? If I were you, I'd run the other way and never look back. If you have the choice, you should take it."

She laughed without humor. "If I had the choice, I would. I guess I'll just have to get used to him."

Sally shrugged. "Lock your door at night if he knows where you live, that's all I'm saying."

Sophie sighed, and looked up at the house bathed in red and blue light. She gave Sally a final nod before jogging up the steps and inside.

Up the stairs, Sherlock, John and the man from before were crowded around a body. Only two of the men wore blue suits. The body was a lady, dressed head-to-toe in pink. The men looked up on her arrival.

She remembered the text she had received, and blinked slowly at the body, wobbling unsteadily on her feet and willing her face to go pale.

"I'll just…" she keeled over slightly and took a shuddering breath. "I think I'll just wait outside…"

Sherlock seemed disappointed that she hadn't had a more lively reaction to the apparent suicide scene in front of her. "Just go home. I have Doctor Watson to assist me now," with that, he turned her back to her and continued lecturing the grey-haired man about weather conditions and suitcases.

Soph kept up the charade for as long as it took to get onto the street. As she aimlessly walked down back the way they had come in the taxi cab, a dark car with tinted windows pulled up next to her.

She got in without hesitation, but with reluctance. She knew who it was, only…

She had never seen this woman before. The lady was on her phone, studiously avoiding her questioning gaze.

Sophie sighed, and sat back as the car took her down winding streets and back roads, staring out the window until they came to a stop outside an abandoned warehouse.

She could feel her heart thumping in her chest. The driver, a man about twice her size and with five times the muscle mass herded her into the dusty concrete building. Inside, a tall man in a three-piece suit, leaning on an umbrella appraised her quietly.

She approached him, opting not to sit in the chair that had been left there.

"Hello, Sophie," he intoned. "You seem rather put off. Not who you were expecting, hmm?"

She choose not to answer.

He chuckled. "What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?" A smile was upon his face but his eyes were cold and calculating.

"I'm his assistant. I was hired yesterday."

"And yet, in that short time, he's gained a roommate, and has brought you both along to solve crimes. Should I be expecting a happy announcement by the end of the week?"

In spite of the potential danger of the situation, Soph gave a cheeky smile. "Don't hold your breath. John's not gay, and, well, I am."

He hummed, either disappointed or just unamused. She sighed. "What is this, then? So interested in Sherlock when you're clearly not his friend."

"You've met the man; how many friends do you really think he has?"

Soph thought of Donovan and the forensics team's bet.

The man continued. "I'm the closest thing Sherlock has to a friend."

"A sibling?" She guessed.

He looked taken aback, and clarified. "An _enemy_. At least in his mind. I'm sure if you asked him, he'd call my his arch-enemy. He does love to be dramatic."

"Then you two are a perfect match, I suppose."  
He frowned at her. The frown deepened when her phone dinged.

She paused, and pulled it out.

 _I don't appreciate it when you don't follow my orders. I punish people who don't follow my orders, Sophie._

She glanced at the man, who was staring at her with raised eyes. "I do hope I'm not keeping you."

She looked back down at her phone, and quickly typed a reply before pocketing it.

 _I'm currently occupied by Sherlock's 'arch-enemy'. Seems a certain someone will have competition._

The man cleared his throat. "Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?"

"Unless you're willing to pay better, yes."

He pulled out a wallet. "If you do remain in the employment of Sherlock Holmes, I'd be willing to pay a considerable fee on a regular basis. In exchange for…information."

She considered it. If her superiors found out about this, she was dead. But, if she was honest, as soon as they were done with her they'd probably kill her anyway, just to keep her quiet. "Are we talking your version of a 'considerable fee', or mine?"

He wrote out a check, and handed it over with a shark's grin.

Her mouth fell open. She nodded, and calmly placed it in her pocket. "If I do this, nobody can know."

"Naturally."

She opened her mouth to reply, but her phone cut her off.

 _Mycroft Holmes. Looks like you've caught another big fish. We can use this._

Before she could put her phone away, it dinged again.

 _Good girl._

She pushed down a smile and looked up at him. "I imagine you'll be the one contacting me? You don't seem like the Facebook type."

He let out a unfeeling laugh. "You may go back to your Woman now, Sophie."

The color fell from her face. She stared at him for a couple of seconds. "Okay, Mike," she finished, turning to walk away, but not before seeing his face drop.

 _Do I go back to Baker Street or go to you?_

Soph was all too aware of the echoing thud of her shoes, and the silence from the man who had brought her here.

 _Come._

She grinned, and hopped back into the black car.

Irene Adler's house was almost always warm. The one exception was when a certain guest was in. He liked to keep things cold. It made people more uncomfortable and eager to please.

Sophie had first noticed this months ago. Irene had left Sophie alone after a particularly lengthy session.

Her legs were too wobbly to properly hold up her weight, and so she had collapsed back onto the bed, covered in a plastic sheet, and taken a few minutes to calm down.

As part of Irene's business, she always left her clients ten minutes after their booking, to get their bearings. It was a necessary precaution, albeit one Soph had never really taken advantage of until now.

It was nearing the end of the ten minutes before she stood back up, walking over to the connecting bathroom.

It was always stocked with towels, baby wipes, perfumes and colognes, prepared for any refreshment needed.

Soph gingerly wiped herself down, taking care around her back and upper thighs, where she could feel angry, thin welts rising up already.

There were no clocks in the room, only an egg timer, so clients and Irene alike could tell when the appointment was up.

The time had run out.

You had to pay extra when you went overtime, and as she got dressed she wondered how the hell she would afford it.

She was already unemployed, and staying at her girlfriend's tiny flat. Her girlfriend knew about this, and didn't mind as long as she was honest with her.

After all, Molly was honest with her about the feelings she had for a colleague.

They both wanted different things sexually, and both were fine with that.

But Sophie could tell it was going too far. Every time she tried to quit, she found herself seeking out other substitutes; 'accidentally' touching the kettle after it had boiled, getting her hand caught in the car door.

There was something wrong with her, but Irene thrived off of customers that were broken.

And so she would come back.

Sophie didn't know how she would explain to Molly about this extra cost.

She had promised to find a proper job. Her savings from her job she had at university were quickly running out. Cats were expensive. Three cats were _very_ expensive.

So it was with a sullen disposition that she put back on her clothes, and went to find Irene.

She was surprised to find that she wasn't in the living room. It bridged the gap between front door and playroom, so that she could see every client out – and make them pay any extra fees incurred during their time together.

Kate was out for the afternoon, so she couldn't leave the money with her. Soph heard voices in the office.

She had never been in there before, but she knew that if she left without paying, she wouldn't be allowed back.

So she gathered up her courage, and knocked.

Silence fell inside.

Irene cracked open the heavy wooden door just a couple inches. "You can leave, Miss Walters." Her face was tense, and not as in command as it was half an hour ago.

Sophie found her voice. "I apologize, ma'am, I'm here to pay the overtime fee. I took too long getting ready."

For a moment she thought the Woman was going to simply dismiss her, but a sing-song voice came from behind the door.

"Do come in, Miss _Walters_ ," it drawled.

For the first time since they'd met, Sophie saw a look of regret on Irene's face.

She mouthed 'sorry' and opened the door wider, ushering her in.

Sitting in the seat behind the desk, Irene's seat, was a man in an expensive suit.

He oozed danger and charm, and his glinting eyes followed her as she gingerly stepped into the room.

His mouth worked as he looked her over. "An interesting habit you have, Miss Walters, for such a young lady."

She didn't know what to say, so said nothing.

He leaned forward. "I recognize you. Sophie." She took a shuddering breath. "The Crucible, West End? Outstanding." He got up, and slowly wandered around the room, pretending to inspect the bookcases. "I've got a witch-hunt of my own, you see, that's very… _important_ , to me." His tongue swirled around in his mouth as he turned back to her, looking her straight in the eye. "' _Until an hour before the devil fell, God thought him beautiful in heaven.'_ I want to make another angel fall." He resumed his waltz across the room.

Irene was still standing by the door, eyes downcast.

"A Mr. Sherlock Holmes," the Irish man sang, "wasting away his beautiful mind on the side of the angels. Disappointing." He shrugged; even this action came off as threatening. "You will help me, won't you? Sophie?"

Irene's head shifted slightly, giving her a nod.

"Yes," Sophie near-whispered.

Today, after a suicide and an encounter with a second Mr. Holmes, Sophie found herself in Irene Adler's office.

It was cold.

He was happy today. He almost always enjoyed himself, but today he was positively glowing with a menacing energy.

In the explanation of events, Soph had come clean about the money, offering deferentially to send it directly to him.

Even the betrayal of trust didn't faze him. Rather, he took it as Sophie playing the game; getting on the good graces of Mycroft Holmes so that she could keep tabs on him, too.

Not that he had really explained the game at all. She didn't know why Sherlock was so interesting to him, she didn't know how she would even be of any use.

So far she had done nothing of interest, but even the small details like what Sally told her about the forensics team, and the skull on Sherlock's mantelpiece, caused him endless delight.

It was nearing midnight when Soph gently unlocked and pushed open the door to Molly's flat.

It was dead quiet inside, and as the keys jangled back into the dish on the side table, she spotted a note.

 _Went to bed early b/c I have to go to work early tomorrow xoxo_

Smiling, she kicked off her boots at the door and padded down to their bedroom.

Inside, Molly was fast asleep, surrounded by Toby, Frankie and Lucy.

She undressed quietly, moving Toby out of the way and slipping into the bed, which had been warmed up by the combined body heat of three cats and a human.

Soph watched Molly as she shifted slightly; subconsciously gravitating towards her.

She leant in, and fell asleep with a contented smile on her face.

That morning, Sophie hitched a ride into town with her girlfriend. Molly worked in the morgues at Saint Barts, and had to go in extra early to deal with the body of Jennifer Wilson.

Though she didn't bring it up in the car, Soph knew Molly's secret yet infamous crush often visited her there. She refused to mention who, not out of distrust but embarrassment, which led Sophie to believe this lady she was crushing on might be someone she knew.

They had gone to work dos together in the past, but she couldn't really remember Molly liking anyone specific then.

As Molly got settled into her routine of doing an autopsy, Sophie secretly hoped this special lady turned up.

It made her happy to see Molly happy, and while it was best when she was the one causing it, she was glad Molly had found something that was special, just like Soph had.

The doors swung open and a familiar figure stormed in.

Without noticing Sophie leaning against the bench, he declared to Molly, "No need, Molly, no need! The case is solved!"

Molly, who had gone suspiciously quiet, stared down at the massive Y that she had just cut into the chest of the victim and sighed.

As Molly was pulling her gloves off, Sherlock turned to look around the room and did a double take.

"Sophie? What are you doing here?"

She laughed. "Can't you just deduce it anyway?"

Molly gave her a frantic glance while Sherlock was looking, shaking her head meaningfully. Surely not…?

She cleared her throat. "I was just coming to see if they had any information on file. After I went home, you never told me if you solved it or not." She stood up, gently squeezing Molly's hand out of sight and headed for the door. "Now I know you solved it, I'll just head out."

Sherlock had already turned his attention to Molly. "Why aren't you wearing that lipstick today? Now your mouth looks too small."

Sophie froze, and turned around. "What the fuck did you say?"

Sherlock looked bewildered; Molly just looked embarrassed.

"That's inappropriate workplace conduct, Sherlock," she finished lamely.

Both Sherlock and Molly were still in an awkward silence when the door swung shut behind her.

 _We need to talk_.

Soph glanced back at the message she had sent twenty minutes ago. Irene had replied with a time, and now she was sat in Irene's living room, listening to her finish up with a client.

She exited the playroom, sitting across from Soph still dressed in her lace and leather. She raised an eyebrow expectantly.

"I want out."

"You know that's not an option."

"Well, I need to find a way to _make_ it an option, then."

Irene stared at her. "What's got you so riled up."

Soph shook her head and stared at the perfectly polished floorboards. "Sherlock is…no longer just a stranger. Someone I care about cares about him, and I can no longer be a part of his destruction."

Irene nodded in thought. "He won't change his mind, and he won't let you go."

"I'll run away; change my name."

"He'll find you."

"I'll kill him."

Irene barked out a laugh that froze in her throat. Her face went pale.

"How fascinating," how did he get so close behind her? "You really think you have a chance, don't you?"

Sophie ignored the trembling of the muscles in her stomach and held her spine up straight. "How about I kill him, then." It went deadly quiet. "You won't have anything to play with."

"I'd have you killed for that."

"You would have me killed anyway."

The springs in the couch creaked as he sat down on the edge, staring directly into her eyes. She forced herself to meet his gaze defiantly.

"I'd have you _skinned_."

Her heart began to tremor, and all of a sudden the dark thunder in his expression cleared. He tilted his head, smiling.

"Molly Hooper is an interesting girl, isn't she?"

She jerked her head.

He chuckled under his breath. "And tall, dark and handsome does seem to be her taste in men." He leant back, casually gesturing at himself. "St. Barts has an opening in the IT department that I might just apply for."

She shook her head slowly, trying to will away the pressure behind her eyes.

He put his hand softly on her shoulder, making her flinch, and smiled at her. "You have Irene. I think it's selfish of you not to let your little girlfriend have someone too." He shrugged. "My team informs me you two haven't really been doing a whole lot in that flat of yours."

Before she could think of the futility of her actions, Soph bolted.

A strong, brutal grip around her wrist tugged her back onto the couch.

His other hand wrapped around her chin, and his face came within a few centimeters of hers. "Don't you think for a _second_ ," he hissed, all pretense of humor gone, "that you'll survive this little ordeal. If you shut up and _take_ it, your girlfriend might just live to see another day."

He let go, pushing her away from him. Her hand throbbed and she had bit down on her tongue, but she stayed quiet, avoiding his gaze.

He got up casually, and brushed his suit, adjusting the sleeves. "I hope we're on the same page, Miss Walters," he drawled, and let himself in to Irene's office, gently closing the door behind him with a click.

.

I _said_ , if you don't review, your mom's a hoe!

Hi everyone! Thank you for reading this far, I know I'm 8 years late, but I hope you'll still find this an enjoyable read!

I'm definitely fucking around with the characters (specifically their relationships with our OC), but I will be keeping pretty in line with the canon plot.

There was a serious lack of lesbians on the show, and with the power invested in me I've chosen to change that. It's also much more fun to write characters with poor morals, than goody-two-shoes.

Let me know what you think!

I'm still debating skipping out the Blind Banker, because that is the low point of the whole show for me personally, but I might find a way to write it that is interesting to read.

I'm not sure, also, how explicit to go. Obviously Sophie likes to get it on, but I'm thinking maybe the implications are enough to serve the story.


	2. The Blind Banker

In addition to dealing with potential clients, as Sherlock Holmes' assistant Sophie had also been tasked with editing his blog posts before they went out on The Science of Deduction.

Though you wouldn't think it, Sherlock had atrocious spelling and grammar. Clearly not because he wasn't smart enough, but because he didn't care. In his words, his brain simply worked at a rate "faster than my body can physically match", and so with the luxury of an assistant, he chose not to put in the extra effort to slow down.

Because of the pride he had in his blog, he required her to be at 221B Baker Street while working on it, so he could keep tabs and add in any spontaneous bursts of input.

Just as Sophie was trying to work out whether Sherlock meant to put that you could identify a sex addict from his 'tan' or his 'tank' (neither seemed possible), a notification popped up, indicating an email.

Sherlock heard the accompanying ding, and rushed over. After glancing through a few lines of text, he snatched the laptop from her lap, angling it in so only he could read it.

"Is that my laptop?"

Soph glanced up, and saw John, laden with grocery bags. She rushed over to help, but also to avoid the certain lover's spat that would follow.

After a bit of back and forth, John gave up and harrumphed, sitting into the armchair. He flicked through a couple of opened letters, several stamped with big red boxes.

He groaned. "These are still here. I need to get a job."

Sherlock looked up. "Sophie, why haven't you sorted out our bills?"

"Did you ask me to?"

He rolled his eyes. "Why would I _ask_ you to?" She blinked. He turned around impatiently in his seat. "You're an assistant, you should be _assisting_!"

"Right."

John, still hung up about the bills, leant forward. "Sherlock," he began softly. "If you'd be able to lend me some… Sherlock?"

He had his hands poised underneath his chin in consternation. "I need to go to the bank."

He left in a flick of his coat, and John eagerly, albeit confusedly, followed.

In the ensuing silence, the ding of her phone gave her a fright.

 _I met someone! Eek! Xoxo_

A pool of dread grew in her stomach as she read Molly's message, knowing exactly who it was that she met.

 _Omg I'm so excited!_

She paused, fingers hovering over the screen.

 _Omg I'm so excited! You should bring them round for dinner sometime. I want all the grisly details_ _J_ _xxxx_

No reason she couldn't at least keep tabs.

It had been almost an hour, and neither Sherlock nor John had returned from the bank.

She took the chance to snoop around, with extreme care not to touch anything, taking a few photos of the house and his belongings, sending them to Irene.

She didn't have direct contact with Moriarty; he liked to have a degree of separation to avoid any suspicion should Sherlock begin to catch on. So she would converse with Irene, and Irene would pass it on.

Sophie felt a little bad that she was betraying her friends' confidences, but it's not like they ever really spoke to her. Sherlock wasn't interested in the business side of things, and that disinterest extended to the one who dealt with it. John was a little better; making an effort now and then to greet her or ask her how she was, but it was clear he was infatuated with the adventures he was having with Sherlock.

She was making herself a cup of tea and staring out at the street below, when she noticed a black car pull up directly outside their front door.

She frowned; it wasn't John and Sherlock, and that car was suspiciously similar to the one that…

No. It was _exactly_ the car that Mycroft Holmes sent out last time.

Sighing, she slipped on her coat and left the flat.

"Here's a thought: café. Park, maybe."

They were back in an abandoned building. A different one, this time a parking lot rather than a warehouse, but the gist was the same.

Mycroft smiled condescendingly at her. "I prefer to be…discreet when it comes to my brother. We have what you might call a complex relationship."

"Where do you even work?" It had been bugging her, how he had so many means, yet needed someone else to keep tabs on his brother.

"I occupy a minor position in the British government."

She sent him a dubious look. "How minor?"

He bristled. "What is dear Sherlock up to these days?"

A thought struck Sophie; a possibility of an out. This man was clearly powerful, and in a twisted way, he cared deeply for his brother.

Maybe he could help her.

He was waiting for an answer. "A brother who burned down his mother's house for the insurance, a couple cheating husbands, a lady who kidnapped her-"

"You know that's not what I mean," he interrupted, "so don't waste my time."

She opened her mouth, ready for a retort, then closed it again. If she wanted him to help her, she needed him to take her seriously. "Him and John are very close. John is addicted to the lifestyle he lives, and Sherlock loves having an adoring fan at his constant disposal."

He nodded, leaning heavier on his umbrella. "Does he seem…happy?"

Soph considered this. "Satisfied, maybe. I don't know what happy even means for him."

Mycroft's eyes gazed at something that she couldn't see. "Nor do I." He changed the subject, recalibrating his expression into something more stern. "He is not to hear of this, you understand?"

"I don't honestly think he realizes I'm there half the time." Seeing his insistent gaze, she continued. "I won't say anything."

He reached into his pocket, pulling out a black business card with a single phone number printed in silver.

"If Sherlock gets in to trouble, or if you get in to trouble, this line is private."

He handed it to her. She searched his eyes, but could find no evidence of insight he might have about her situation, so she simply nodded.

He turned, and got into his own vehicle. The conversation was over.

When Sophie returned, the Baker Street boys were just about to leave. The living room was littered with scraps of different symbols and newspaper articles.

"I need you to go to the police station," Sherlock was ordering John. "Ask about the journalist; personal effects, something like his diary that will tell us his movements." As he was doing this, he was bundling John into his coat, much to John's annoyance.

Sherlock glanced up at Soph. "I'm going to Van Coon's PA, see what I can find." Without giving her a chance to respond, he hurried down the street.

John and her shared a look. Shrugging in defeat, he hailed a taxi cab and gave the order to go to Scotland Yard.

As the car pulled away, Soph's attention was caught by a flash. On the opposite side of the street was a lady taking photographs of the pair. She frowned, ready to alert John, but when she turned back, the woman was gone.

At Scotland Yard, an unfamiliar young man who John had introduced as DI Dimmock, was begrudgingly sifting through a suspension box, looking for the file on Van Coon.

"That friend of yours," he started implicitly.

"Whatever you're going to say, you're 100% right." Soph grinned at John's lack of an attempt to defend the detective.

"…He's a right sod."

"Not what I was expecting." Sophie considered. "You would've been fine if you had said dickhead. Asshole. Wan-"

Dimmock cut her off, holding out a worn book. "This is what you wanted, isn't it? The journalist's diary?"

John grabbed it before she could, opening it to the day of his death. Inside, a used ticket stub for a flight to China.

They gave their curt thanks, and headed out onto the Main Street. With his head buried in the diary, John didn't notice his roommate coming the other way, and the pair crashed into each other.

Without missing a beat, Sherlock relayed everything he had pieced together about a place Van Coon must have visited. Soph unsuccessfully tried to interrupt him, but never made it to the end of the first syllable.

John, tiring of the monologue, growled, "Sherlock!" The detective paused, caught off guard. John rolled his eyes and pointed. "That shop over there."

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows. "What? How could you tell?"

"Cause he wrote it in his diary, he wrote the address."

"Guess you're not the only one who can solve mysteries around here, huh?"

Soph's smug look fell as Sherlock glared at her. "Do you expect me to congratulate you on your ability to _read_?"

"Would be nice," she murmured, pouting. He huffed and started across the street, entering the Chinese antiques store.

She sighed and ran to catch up.

Inside, traditional music was playing. The cramped store was packed with trinkets, duplicates of trinkets, copies of duplicates of trinkets. The cutesy feel was somewhat disturbed when you could clearly see that nothing was unique.

"Do you want a cat?" The lady at the counter spoke up and held out a little lucky cat statue, complete with waving arm. "Ten pound, ten pound!"

Both men began to decline politely (one more polite than the other) but Soph rushed forward. "Oh, abso _lute_ ly," she exclaimed. The other two men began snooping around while the lady's attention was caught on the sale.

She handed over the note, and the woman gave her a cat, still in a cardboard box.

She grinned and tucked it under her shoulder. Behind her, the store was empty.

She groaned and ran out onto the street, where John and Sherlock were winding their way around market stalls.

She caught up, and heard the end of what Sherlock was telling John. "…written in an Ancient Chinese dialect," they were now in a produce stall, checking all the price tags.

"It's a fifteen! The cipher, it's the number fifteen!"

"The line is a number, too, the number one," Sherlock declared.

Soph glanced between the two. "I could've told you that. One line is 1, two lines are 2, three are 3." Sherlock threw her a questioning glance. "I did a year of Chinese in high school. Why do you never even think to ask me anything on your cases? I may not be a genius but neither is John!" His face crumpled. "Sorry, John."

Sherlock said something else then, surely snarky, but the same lady in sunglasses, taking a photo, caught her attention.

She shifted the box to her other arm, blinking in shock when the lady seemed to almost disappear in thin air. She looked around them, but the lady was gone.

Sherlock and John decided to stay in the area for lunch to discuss what the numbers meant for the case, but Sophie had promised Molly she'd have lunch with her at the St Bart's cafeteria.

It was a weekly tradition; lunch together on a Friday, and it always brought a smile to her face spending some quality time with her.

Between Molly's odd hours, and Soph's new job, they were learning to make the most of the moments they did have together.

But the smile dropped when she noticed Molly had company. She had noticed Sophie; gesturing wildly for her to come sit down at the plastic bench, but Sophie didn't rush over as fast as she normally would have.

He had his back to her, and was wearing completely different clothes, but she knew it was him. Who else would it be?

"This is Jim," Molly proclaimed, "He's from I.T."

Jim turned to smile pleasantly at Sophie as she approached the table, sitting down beside her girlfriend. His hair was slicked back differently and his posture was relaxed and friendly. Still, she couldn't forget their last encounter.

"Hi, Jim," she returned weakly.

Molly had taken her hand in hers under the table, but was still making moony eyes at the man sitting across from them. "This is Sophie, I was telling you all about her."

"Only good things I hope."

He smirked. "The _best_."

A thought struck Sophie. He was putting an awful lot of effort into this ruse. He didn't want Molly to suspect anything. How far was he willing to go to keep it up?

He had used this as a power play, but the ball was in her court.

"I'd love to hang out sometime, get to know you better." She leaned in and smiled. "The new season of Glee just came out on DVD, and we were going to marathon it tonight. Would it be alright if he tagged along, Molly?"

He kept up the façade, but the smirk had fallen off his face.

Molly gave a little squeal. "I love it! I'll give you all the details, Jim. We can pop some popcorn, buy some ice cream, maybe I'll make us margaritas!"

Sophie grinned. "Are you a margarita man, Jim?"

He ignored her and turned to Molly. "I'll drink anything you ask me to, I promise." The sly wink he gave Molly didn't go unnoticed.

Soph changed the subject. "Anyway, Jim, tell me – did you go to Oxford or Cambridge for your Computer Science degree?"

"Sheffield," he countered, "I wanted to stay close to home, keep living with my mum for as long as I could." He reveled in the 'awww' Molly let out.

"Sheffield's IT program was shut down and merged with Lancaster almost twenty years ago. I guess you must be a lot older than you look."

The scolding Molly gave her was worth it to see the look on his face.

Molly excused herself to go to the bathroom.

To his credit, Moriarty kept up appearances for almost a full minute after she left. With the tick of the clock, the mask dropped.

He drew himself up, resting his elbows on her edge of the bench so that his hands came down on her arms and his face was centimeters from hers.

It was only now that she realized there were very few people left in the cafeteria.

"You are a very stupid girl," he growled. "I hope the satisfaction you get today will last you the rest of your life. Which, incidentally, won't be very long anymore."

The thunderous clouds in his eyes cleared, but his domineering stance remained.

"There are two things you must do if you want to live to see tomorrow."

She held his gaze but didn't reply.

"Break up with Molly, right here and now, and move in with _Mistah_ Holmes."

She let air rush out through her nose that she didn't realize she was holding. Seeing his expectant look, she nodded slowly.

Abruptly, he dropped back and began finishing an elaborate tale he was supposedly telling.

Sophie felt a hand on her shoulder as Molly returned and eased herself back into her seat.

"Are you okay?" Molly questioned her, hand still on her shoulder. "You look like you've seen a ghost," she laughed nervously.

Fighting the tears of anger in her eyes, she glanced up at Molly, beautiful Molly. "Could we have a moment to talk in private?"

Jim butted in, his voice brighter than ever. "You can talk freely in front of me, I won't tell!" His smile held something dangerous.

Soph opened her mouth, but no words came out.

"Is everything alright?" Molly was concerned now, gripping tightly onto her shoulder.

Sophie gently detached herself. "I…" She cleared her throat and started again, feeling goosebumps of dread rise on her arms. "I think we…want different things." Molly didn't understand. She continued on, breath shaky. "I'll go round to the flat now and clear my stuff. This relationship isn't working."

Her mouth trembled and she stood up, noisily scraping the chair on the floor. All was silent. She rushed away before he saw her cry, but she heard him comforting a now-sobbing Molly.

"You have me," he crooned, "you have me."

 _221B. We require an assistant to sort through some books. Come at once. SH._

She sighed, seeing her breath swirl in the cold evening air, and wedged her fingernails under the edge of her white plastic phone case. It snapped off into her hand, and a single piece of black card fell out.

On it, a phone number.

She looked up at 221B Baker Street. She was sitting on a metal bench across the road, looking up at the lights on in the upper window. She could just make out two silhouettes, rushing back and forth around the flat.

It wasn't too late to go along with Moriarty's plan. It was the safest way for her.

But where would it end?

That man, that evil man, was currently alone with her… _ex_ -girlfriend. He wanted to destroy Sherlock, but she had met the detective over a week ago and hadn't seen any reason why.

She dialed the number.

It only rang twice before a deep, authoritative voice answered.

"What emergency am I being alerted to today, Miss Walters?"

Last chance.

She sighed. "Jim Moriarty."

The car had come suspiciously quickly, even though she didn't specify where she was before the phone clicked.

Now, she was in a well-heated flat, though the lack of furnishings suggested it wasn't Mycroft Holmes' personal one.

He had assured her it was perfectly safe and completely private before egging her on to speak.

She told him about Moriarty. About Molly. She even swallowed her pride and told her about why she got in this situation in the first place; her relationship with the Woman.

But for some reason she couldn't articulate, she didn't mention Jim's interest in Sherlock.

Maybe she just wanted to keep Mycroft's attention on her safety rather than not his; he was a genius, she was sure he could handle himself.

He took everything she said seriously and calmly, and promised her his assistance.

Mycroft advised her to follow Moriarty's instructions (in her edited version, she claimed Moriarty wanted her to move in to Baker Street in order to keep her away from Molly), but he arranged for extra surveillance around the flat, and even a mobile phone she could use that tracked her location.

She was safe.

By the time they had finished speaking, the clock on the kitchen counter read 3:51. That was a.m. time. In order to avoid suspicion, she spent what remained of the night at this impersonal flat, and caught a taxi to 221B Baker Street later that morning.

When she arrived, both men were sitting at the kitchen table, eating breakfast.

Sherlock began to catch her up to speed on the case, but John noticed something was wrong.

"Everything alright?"

"I, uh…I was wondering if I could stay here a few nights. Just on the couch, maybe?"

"Why? What happened?"

Sherlock didn't look up from the newspaper he was reading. "She just broke up with her girlfriend. Spent the night at a hotel, from the looks of things."

John expressed a sigh of empathy. "If it's any consolation, things haven't worked out so well with Sarah."

"Who's Sarah?"

He gave a bemused frown. "You haven't even been gone long but you've missed so much. Alright then, Sherlock, go on."

"I don't know what you mean."

"You've been wanting to gloat all morning, _that_ even I can deduce."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but pulled her up a chair and began to impart the past two days' events.

As Sherlock ranted on, and John gently pushed over the plate of biscuits, Sophie could almost forget the situation she found herself in.

A young man outside spray-painted in blue an eye on the side of a wall.

Almost.

.

And that was chapter two!. A lot has happened, a lot had to go on for Soph in advance of the season finale!

As you may have guessed, it'll be a chapter per episode. Some chapters will be more eventful than others, just depending on what our Sophie is up to.


	3. The Great Game

**J** ust a quick preface: this is an extremely long chapter, the longest single piece of fiction I've ever written (okay, its just over 6.5k words, but STILL, that's 17 pages).

This is the Great Game.

This chapter changes this greatly going forward. So prepare yourself.

A shot rang out.

Another.

Two in a row now.

Two figures ran frantically into the living room – one from the stairs below, and one from the bathroom – where a third figure was lying on the couch in his pajamas, firing a gun aimlessly at the wall.

Soph groaned. "Seriously! Are you insane? I was in the shower and I thought we were in the middle of a fucking massacre!" It was only now that she became really aware of her wet hair, still with shampoo bubbles, and the raggedy, threadbare towel that was the only thing between her skin and the outside world.

She adjusted it tighter around her. "What, was there a murderer hiding in our walls or something?"

"Bored!"

"Buh- John, you can handle this," she muttered in defeat, padding back down the hall and into the steamy bathroom.

She quickly rinsed out the remaining soap, patted herself down and hurriedly slipped into her wool-knit dress and black leggings.

When she got back out, hair wrung out and pinned back, a spat had already broken out between the two men.

"…'What's incredible is how completely ignorant he is about some things,'" Sherlock recited.

Sophie dumped herself down in the armchair. "Who said that about you Sherlock?"

"John did, if you can be-" He paused. "What made you think it was written about me?"

She gave him a condescending grin.

" _Anyway_ ," John butted in, "I didn't mean it like that."

"Oh, you meant 'completely ignorant' in a nice way? Look, it doesn't matter who's Prime Minister, or who's walked on the Moon, or what season it is-"

"Or that the Earth goes round the Sun," John offered up.

" _Or_ that the Allies won the war, or that you should shake someone's hand when you meet them, or that-"

Sherlock interrupted with a dramatic huff. "Shut up, Sophie, those things aren't important!"

"I quite enjoyed that game, actually," she countered. "And those are all basic general knowledge things, it's a bit ridiculous that you don't know them."

"Well, if I did, I've deleted them." John questioned this. "Listen, this is my hard-drive," gesturing emphatically at his own head, "and it only makes sense to keep things in there that are useful, _really_ useful. Ordinary people fill their heads with all kinds of nonsense and rubbish, and it makes it harder to get to the stuff that matters, do you see?"

"Sherlock," Soph asked with a curious smile on her face, "what do you get when you mix blue and yellow?"

He gave her a withering look, but didn't respond.

She hooted. "I _love_ this game!"

"Well, go ahead and enjoy your petty games. All I care about is my work; without it my brain rots." He ruffled his hair with two hands for emphasis. "Stop putting rubbish on your blog, John, or better yet, stop inflicting your opinions on the world!"

And with that, he flung his dressing gown over him and turned his back to John and Sophie.

She cleared her throat. "They make green."

An angry exclamation from Sherlock was the last straw for John, who stood up and began putting on his coat.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock had turned around with a pout on his face, which rather completed the childish aura he had already cultivated.

"I'm going out! I need some air."

As John left, Mrs. Hudson arrived, calling out and knocking on the already-open door.

"Have you three had a little domestic?" She set some bags down on the counter and tutted. "It's freezing out there; he should've wrapped up a little more."

Sherlock stood at the window and watched John leave. "Look at that, Mrs. Hudson. Peaceful. Calm. Isn't it hateful?"

"Oh, I'm sure something will happen. A nice murder, that'll cheer you up!"

"Maybe if you're a good boy, Santa will make it a serial killer," Soph droned. She blinked when instead of retorting or glaring, Sherlock nodded and smiled dreamily. She tilted her head. Did he seriously believe in Santa Claus, or was he not even listening to her? Most likely Option B.

" _Hey!_ " Mrs. Hudson had spotted the bullet holes riddling the flat. "What have you done to my walls?" He simply grinned at her. "I'm putting this on your rent, young man," she called out as she walked back down the stairs.

"I reckon you could get away with some cleverly placed duct tape," she remarked.

He opened his mouth to reply, and the windows burst behind him, the rush of smoke and fire launching them across the room.

"Sherlock! Sherlock?" John came bounding up the stairs, pausing in his tracks when he saw the aforementioned man calmly plucking at his violin.

Soph, stationed at the windows – well, open holes covered by old sheets – checked outside to see if the mess outside was cleared up yet.

It was still crawling with police, firefighters and journalists alike. She sighed and turned around.

Mycroft Holmes was sitting in her usual seat, which was why she was still standing, and every now and then he would look over at her in thought. They both had a pretty strong inkling who did this.

She was certain he'd figure out the connection between Moriarty and Sherlock soon enough. It was only a matter of time before she'd be on the chopping block again. She flashed him a small smile and he broke eye contact.

Sherlock and Mycroft had been discussing a potential case; one the detective didn't want to do.

"Anyway, John, how was the lilo?"

Mycroft gave John a once-over. "It was the sofa. Baker Street has been quite busy now that you've become… _pals._ What's he like to live with? Hellish, I imagine."

And once again Sophie had been deleted from the conversation. She quickly snuck away to the kitchen; although, she could've easily stomped the whole way and gotten no notice.

A ding broke through the sound of the slowly boiling kettle.

 _Kaboom._

She rolled her eyes. Maybe she was becoming desensitized to the danger, but the more she was around the Holmes brothers and Moriarty, the more childish they seemed. Children with motives and guns, of course, but still children.

 _Not a very impressive one._

The kettle whistled, and she absentmindedly made herself a cup of hot chocolate. Half boiling water, half milk, about a pound of chocolate powder.

 _I'll try harder next time._

She frowned. Next time.

Her fingers toyed over the screen.

She shouldn't be doing this; couldn't guarantee he'd tell her the truth.

 _How's Molly?_

 _…_

 _Does she know I miss her?_

She hastily deleted the last sentence, but sent the rest, anxiously biting the inside of her lip.

 _It's always difficult being dumped out of the blue. She has a good support system._

She scoffed, slamming her phone down.

Fuck him. Fuck Moriarty.

Fuck Mycroft, who had done nothing about him for two weeks now.

Fuck Sherlock, who was somehow so interesting he had ruined her life indirectly.

She tipped the drink down the sink, changing her mind.

"I'm going out," she called, but of course the three men in the living room were too busy discussing something-West to pay her any mind.

Soph knocked on the door.

She was answered and ushered in quite quickly. As she sat down in the living room on a pristine white couch, Irene Adler entered the room.

"I'm surprised you're still alive."

"So am I."

"Well, you're in luck. I have a free morning. 9am, 10am and 11am are all open for booking. Which one would you like?"

Sophie felt sick. "I don't think I'll live to see the end of the day," she murmured.

Irene tilted her head. "All three, then?"

Her eyes flickered up to meet Irene's and she grinned.

Sophie didn't last three hours. In fact, she was less than halfway done when she burst hopelessly into tears.

Irene, in an uncharacteristic show of kindness, dropped the act of dominatrix and sat down with her to talk.

Being threatened by the same man did wonders for bonding, it seemed.

Once she had calmed down enough to talk, she walked Irene through the series of events that had led to the Baker Street bombing.

"And this Mycroft, he promised to keep you safe?"

"He's very high up in the government, I guess. Has a lot of pull. I'm sure he could help you too, you know."

She smiled, and her eyes flickered to a mirror above the fireplace. "Don't worry about me, my dear, I have my own protection." She looked back at Sophie. "I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but it seems you don't have an out. My advice: go out with style. If you know he's going to kill you, you might as well kill him a little too." Soph smiled sadly.

In that instant, with Irene's arm around her, she made up her mind. "I'd better go tell Sherlock, then. It's not too late for him yet."

She got up off the couch, and headed for the door.

Irene called out to her, and she turned. "Sophie, when you die I shall be inconsolable," she exclaimed.

"I pay you enough," Soph countered.

After texting Sherlock and finding out where he was, she caught a taxi to St Bart's, waiting impatiently for the lift that would take her down to the morgue in the basement levels.

But when she burst through the swing doors, Sherlock wasn't alone. Of course there was John, and naturally Molly – although it twisted her heart to see her – but Moriarty was there as well, a la Jim from I.T.

Molly looked up in surprise, then her face crumpled into hurt. "I'm working, Sophie."

Sherlock looked up from his microscope, and now all four people in the room had their eyes on her.

"Sophie's our assistant, Molly," John offered. "Is there a problem?"

Molly's mouth tightened. "The problem is you left half your stuff at my flat and it's taking up all the space."

Sherlock blinked in shock. " _You_ 're the girlfriend?" He asked incredulously.

"No, I'm not." Her voice was harsh when addressing Sophie, but softened up as she turned back to the evil man in a V-neck t-shirt. "Jim needs some more space in my flat, don't you?"

He grinned at her, wandering in between John and Sherlock, who was still looking at Soph with an unreadable expression on his face. He pretended to knock over a metal disk, apologizing awkwardly. "Sorry, sorry, I'll see myself out." He glanced over at her. "Sophie, was it? Could you show me to the bathrooms, please?"

"I'm not the one that works here, _Jim_."

He lifted his hands up in mock surrender, backing out of the doors.

"Well," Sherlock said, "domestic bliss must suit you, Molly, you've put on five pounds."

"Sherlock!" Sophie scolded him but Molly shot her a look.

"Actually, Sherlock, it's four and a half, and it's not from domestic bliss, it's from eating away my feelings."

Soph turned her head to the side. She tried to ignore the death glares she was receving. "Sherlock, I need to speak with you, privately."

He sighed, turning back to Molly. "Anyway, your boyfriend's gay. Tinted eyebrows, product in his hair, those tired clubbers eyes. His underwear, clearly visible with a very particular brand. I suggest you save yourself the trouble and break it off."

"Why do you have to spoil- He's not gay!" Molly stormed out, shoving past Sophie.

"Just being kind," Sherlock murmured.

John shook his head. " _No_ , Sherlock, that wasn't kind."

"Why do you need to speak to me in private?" Sherlock turned the full, harsh glare of his attention upon Sophie, who defensively crossed her arms over her chest.

"I don't think you've been…paying enough attention to what's been going on around you."

He furrowed his brows. "You broke Molly's heart, so she hooked up with a gay man just so she wasn't alone at night. What did I miss?"

A disbelieving gasp game from Sophie.

He ignored her. She felt her phone vibrate in her pocket.

 _Don't do something I wouldn't do._

"Look, I can't explain fully. He's going to kill me anyway. So please, just listen to me. Moriarty set off those bombs. I know you're looking for him, trying to play his games, work out who he is. Sherlock, _you've already met him_."

Sherlock's head lifted up sharply.

Her phone again.

 _Whoops._

"Go ahead and solve the puzzles. I'm afraid I have to give you my resignation, because I doubt I'll still be here for long."

She had her hand on the door when John called out to her. "Wait! Don't just…give up like that. Stick with us; we can protect you."

She let her hand fall. "Fine. There's not really anything to lose, is there?" She turned back to the two men. "So what's with those sneakers?"

Later that evening, after Soph had miraculously made it back to the Baker Street flat in one piece. John was off on his own case; Mycroft had a USB of missile plans that needed retrieving, and Sherlock was too busy obsessing over a pair of children's shoes.

She had originally tried to help, but after contributing nothing of use, she accepted her fate of sullenly sitting on the couch, staring at Sherlock – who didn't seem to mind an audience – stare at his microscope, and not much else.

Finally, John arrived back from his reconnaissance mission, just in time for a breakthrough.

"Botulin toxin!"

He rushed over to Sophie, explaining his deductions all the while, and snatched the laptop out of her hands. She huffed, but he simply pulled up his blog, posting a few lines of text about the sneakers.

She shot him a questioning glance.

"Get the bomber's attention," he explained, "Stop the clock." He turned to Sophie. "You weren't lying before about knowing that Moriarty's behind these bombings. All the evidence points in that direction; the Baker Street bomb, the shoes being placed in 221C. But you're wrong about Molly's boyfriend. A man like him isn't smart enough to be the mastermind behind this."

"I don't know how you expect me to prove it to you." She shrugged. "What do you expect me to say?"

He turned his back to her, pacing impatiently in front of the pink cellphone on the mantelpiece. "Jealousy does strange things to people," he muttered, barely loud enough for Sophie to hear.

She fell hopelessly back onto the couch just as the phone began to ring.

Sherlock leaped over to answer it.

"Well…done, you. Come and…get me." The voice on the other end was female, thick with tears. She rattled off an address, which Sherlock texted to Lestrade.

The next day, while at the police station, Sherlock had received four pips on the pink phone, and a message delivered by another teary citizen.

The night before, Soph curled herself up in a blanket on the couch, trying to avoid the windows and waiting for death to strike at any moment.

It did weird things to one's psyche, being under such duress for so long. She would go through cycles of thought – _if he hasn't killed me yet, he probably won't; he's just taking his time so I have to suffer; he cares more about Sherlock and his game than he does about me; he knows I tried to end the game myself._

But the thought that there was a reason, any reason, he hadn't killed her already was sewn into her mind. She couldn't escape it. So maybe she could use it.

She pulled out her phone.

 _I think it's time I joined the game._

Back at the station, Soph still hadn't gotten a reply, which was unusual. To be fair, she was still alive, which was a good sign.

Sherlock had just gotten off the phone.

Lestrade was taking down the address of the place the car had been found in, now considered a crime scene.

It didn't take them long to get there. Sherlock had been content to sit in terse silence but eventually John got him to explain the contents of the phone call.

The area they arrived at was a large and empty lot, concrete gleaming with rain. The car in question was parked in the very middle, with men in blue plastic suits flurrying around it.

"Car was rented by a Mister Ian Monkford; rich city boy, paid in cash, had been scheduled to go on a business trip and never arrived." Lestrade read off a clipboard and led them to the car.

Inside, it was almost drenched in viscous blood. Lestrade confirmed the DNA tests read positive for Mr. Monkford, but there wasn't a body found yet.

To the side of the scene, Sherlock was talking to the wife. He seemed to be more distressed than she was. "…only saw him the other day. Same old Ian, not a care in the world!"

"Sorry, but my husband has been depressed for months."

"Odd that he hired a car, isn't it. Bit suspicious." The interrogator in Sherlock had come out yet a single tear slid down his face.

Soph caught eyes with John, and gently jerked her head to the side. He seemed confused, but followed her.

They walked slightly away from the pair still talking, just out of earshot.

Sophie kept her voice down anyway. "These games, the five pips then four. Do you reckon that means there'll be three more to come?"

He shrugged. "Don't ask me, Mr. Grief over there is the one who got the pink phone."

She frowned. "I think there will be. Look, Moriarty is smart. He's getting other people to speak for him, he's orchestrating these elaborate puzzles. I don't know why he cares so much but he's clearly obsessed with Sherlock."

"Why are you telling me this?"

Sherlock had left the lady now, hastily wiping his eyes.

She dropped her voice down to a whisper, rushing to get it out before he joined them. "If we aren't careful, we're going to get in the way. You have to watch your back, now. He's certainly watching ours."

She broke off and looked up at Sherlock, falling beside him as he kept on walking.

"Past tense," he declared.

"Sorry?"

"I spoke about Ian in past tense, she joined in. Bit premature," he ripped off his gloves and adjusted his scarf.

John frowned. "What, you think she killed him?"

"Definitely not."

"I see." John went silent. "No, actually, I don't see. What do I see?"

"Janus Cars." Sherlock handed him a business card. "Found it in the glovebox."

By the time they arrived at Janus Cars, they only had six hours left.

The owner had been prattling away about Mazdas and sunbeds for about ten minutes, Sherlock paying attention to what he did; John focusing on what he was saying.

Together, the two men – after leaving the office, of course – worked out that the boss was clearly lying.

The three of them returned to the lab room in the morgues, luckily with an absence of Molly, and as Sherlock fiddled around with different samples and solutions, John and Soph bantered back and forth with possible answers to the problem.

"Janus Cars is a money-laundering scheme and Monkford accidentally found out when they left top-secret information in one of the rentals!"

John let out a soft 'ooh'. He considered. "Nice one, but why would they hide the body? Maybe the wife found out that Ian was in on it. They faked his death as a warning to her, so she wouldn't snoop anymore."

"Interesting, interesting." They pretended to ponder the matter a while longer, before collapsing into laughter.

It was Sherlock's problem, he had to solve it, but they could always try and inspire him.

The smile was wiped off her face when her phone went off.

 _The clue is in the name. Janus Cars._

"Everything alright?" She nodded, absentmindedly.

 _Awful nice of you to give us a clue._

His reply was immediate.

 _I'm bored. Sherlock and I are made for each other, you see, but he doesn't seem to be trying very hard._

She rolled her eyes.

 _Give me the date and time and I'll happily officiate._

She slipped her phone away, giving a reassuring smile to John, who was still eyeing her with concern.

"Janus Cars," she said to Sherlock. "What does Janus even mean?"

He thought for a moment, then grinned.

Sherlock had lead the group without explanation to the police holdings, where the car was being analyzed properly.

"How much blood was there in the car?"

Lestrade shrugged. "About a pint."  
"Not about, _exactly_. Exactly a pint. That was their first mistake. This blood is Monkford's, but there's evidence of it being frozen. I think he gave blood a while ago for this very reason. Janus Cars. Sophie is right; the clue is in the name."

"The god with two faces?"

Sherlock nodded at John. "Janus Cars provides a very special service. If you need to disappear, they…"

Sherlock kept speaking, but Sophie tuned it out. That tiny sliver of credit, and it wasn't even her own original thought. She turned away from the scene, and typed something out quickly.

 _When I said I wanted to play the game, I didn't mean a pawn. I won't be your messenger._

There wasn't a reply, so she continued on.

 _If you and Sherlock are the Kings, and John is the trusty steed, what does that make me?_

She went to put her phone away, but this time he responded straight away.

 _Oh, honey, you're the board._

"I am on fire!"

Sophie glanced up to see both John and Sherlock rushing down the halls.

She went to catch up, but was held back by a gentle yet firm grip on her arm. Lestrade.

"I'm going to need to speak with you back at the station, young lady."

She blinked. Sherlock and John were out the door now, neither of them sparing her a second glance. "How come?"

The grip tightened. "I think you know."

The room was cramped, but over-lit. The glare of the naked bulb glinted of the mirrors and bounced off the polished metal table.

Her elbows were resting awkwardly on the edge of the table. The cuffs didn't have a very long chain, and it hurt her wrists to have the metal links pull taught.

The familiar feel of dread rose up in her, but about a million times stronger. That fear before you go through airport security that you somehow have drugs in your suitcase. Being called to the principal's office. Breaking a vase and knowing your mother would be home in twenty minutes.

They had left her there, alone, for almost an hour.

Maybe they were watching her through the two-way mirror. Perhaps it was just their lunch break.

Either way, by the time Lestrade came in and sat down across from her, her fingers were raw from biting at the skin, and her shirt sleeve was crusty from wiping away teary snot.

A relieved sob left her. "I don't know why I'm here, you haven't said why I'm here!"

She had never been to jail before. Never even got detention once at school.

And now this friendly face was hardened and all that anger was directed at _her._

"I noticed you were on your phone an awful lot. Of course, that's not what made me bring you here, but texting away every time Sherlock got a call from our psycho bomber is a little suspicious."

She moaned. "It's not _me_ , if you just read those texts-"

"Of course we read them." He pulled out a thick stack of paper stapled together. He flicked through, reading out some highlighted lines. "Blocked number: 'Kaboom'. You: 'Not a very impressive one'. Blocked number: 'I'll try harder next time'."

"Look, you don't understand, I-"

" _You:_ 'I think it's time I joined the game'. We aren't charging you as a bomber, Sophie Elizabeth Walters. We're charging you as an accomplice."

She sniffed loudly, burying her face in her hands and shaking her head hopelessly.

"And to think we let you on the fucking crime scenes. Sherlock had you living in his flat. What did you do to Molly, Sophie?" He snorted in disgust. "Do you have anything to say for yourself."

 _She was the board_. She shook her head. _The players would scheme and play atop her and she just had to sit there and take it._

Dead would've been worse than a record of bombings and assault.

What would Sherlock and John th-.

She looked up.

"He's gonna keep calling. It doesn't stop because you got me. If I was in on it, I would tell you everything I knew. He wouldn't keep going. Call Sherlock; ask if there's been another one."

He gave her a long, unreadable stare. "Sherlock!"

The man in question must've been waiting at the door. He was in in a flash, pulling up a chair beside Lestrade; analyzing, deducing.

"Sherlock," her voice was weak and croaky, "I didn't do this, I swear to God, it's all him, you know it is. He's messing with you."

Lestrade ignored her. "Have you had another call?"

"Yes." Soph let out a sigh of relief. "A blind old lady this time."

"See! I'm not-"

"Oh, so you're telling me it takes two to wrap a poor blind woman in Semtex and put her on the phone?" Lestrade scoffed.

"Connie Prince," Sherlock said. "Our bomber has given us twelve hours to work out the murder of Connie Prince."

Lestrade stood up to leave, turning back to Sophie as the guards unlocked the door. "If you help us out now, tell us all you know, we might go easy on you."

"I swear to God, I've never heard of that person in my life!"

"Well," Sherlock drawled, not looking at her. "We never said you were the mastermind."

And Soph was alone again.

She got one phone call. The only two people she could think to call were a psychotic murderer and a man with a minor position in the British government, whose number was on a business card tucked underneath her phone case, which had now been taken into evidence.

There was only one number she ever really put in the effort to memorize. And though it didn't make sense, she dialed it.

"Hello, who is this?"

"It's Sophie, no- _please don't hang up_ , just give me second. Please!"

"Where are you calling from?"

She shut her eyes and banged her lightly gently against the wall. "The police station."

"What, you want me to bail you out?"  
"No, there's- there's no point. Molly, stay in tonight. Keep the door locked; windows shut. And don't text Jim. He's not who he says he is."

Silence.

"Look, there's going to be news spread about me, awful news, and I just want you to know that none of it is true." She gripped the phone tightly, willing her voice to last just another minute. "Molly, what I did was wrong. I was blackmailed, and I didn't mean it, and I _love_ you."

Silence.

"Molly, you're scaring me."

"It's too late, Sophie." Molly's voice was uncharacteristically dull. Monotone. "The news has spread faster than you think, Sophie. I know what you did. It's sick."

"Molly, I-"

But she had hung up.

According to the clock on the wall in the corridor, which she passed as she was escorted back down to the temporary holding cells, she had been here for well over twenty four hours.

She wasn't sure exactly when she got taken in to custody, but it had been three in the afternoon when she had been transferred from the interrogation suite to an empty cell.

Guards would walk past every now and again; she had been given water and food on two occasions, but for the most part she had been left alone, with nothing to do.

Night was fast approaching, but she had already slept once. The clock in the corridor had told her it was around seven thirty.

Although they hadn't changed her into a jumpsuit, they had confiscated anything bulky that could conceal a weapon, which meant she was in that freezing cell wearing only a long-sleeved top and jeans.

They even took her boots, and she could fell the frigid concrete through her socks.

When you have nothing to do, pretty soon your body decides unconsciousness is better to boredom. So although she hadn't even eaten any more prison sludge for dinner, she curled up under a square meter of itchy blanket and tried to get some sleep.

"Giving up so soon?"

She jolted up, heart racing. On the other side of the bars was a familiar face.

"I've come to pick you up, loyal accomplice." He had a lazy grin on his face but his eyes were alive and scheming.

"Where are all the guards?"

"I think you'll find they're much nicer when they're dead."

He jingled a metal ring laden with keys.

"I'm not going with you."

"What are you afraid of? The death sentence was outlawed _ages_ ago."

She huffed. "Maybe it's the fact that I have a one-way ticket to prison, but I just don't care what you say to me anymore."

His eyes gleamed. "I think John Watson would prefer you did."

In the end, she had put on the bombs and wires willingly. If anything, the big trench coat she wore to hide it was a welcome warmth.

The pool was a short drive away, so they had hours to kill before Sherlock's meeting at midnight.

Moriarty had tried to scare her. Manipulate her, freak her out with his threats and promises.

But the thick layer of explosives spoke for itself, and she wasn't exactly going to be trying to leave anytime soon.

"You're not so fun tonight. If you'd like, I could always give you the vivid details of Molly and I's first night together," he raised his eyebrows suggestively.

A fire lit up within her, but she kept her expression blank. "If I go up right now, so do you. Keep talking. See where it fucking gets you."

"Ooh, tetchy. Someone's had a rough day." His eyes flickered as the woosh of a door sounded. "Showtime."

Sherlock and John stood side by side on the pool tiles.

"Just brought a getting-to-know-you present," Sherlock held up a USB stick. "Oh, it's what this has all been for, isn't it? The puzzles, making me dance, all to distract me from _this_."

Sophie left the changing rooms and walked over to the pair. "Nice of you to bring a getting to know me present, considering you already know me. Or was it just late?"

John swore under his breath, giving her a disappointed shake of the head.

Sherlock slowly paced closer.

"Bet you feel real clever," she recited, "working out who I really was all this time."

Silence.

"Only," she opened the coat, "you weren't clever."

He took a startled step back.

From the shadows of the mezzanine floor, a single red line of light shone directly at her, making her squint as it danced over her face.

"Nice touch, the pool," she droned, dropping the effort now that they both knew. "The place where Carl Powers died. Where I stopped him laughing." She rolled her eyes at the voice in her ear. "I can stop dear Sophie, too. Stop her heart."

"I gave you my number," an Irish lilt called out from the shadows. "I thought you might call."

"Jim from I.T.," Sherlock breathed, eyes darting over to Sophie.

She glared back at him. "Jim from fucking I.T." She flinched as the light flared in her eyes again. She put her hands up in surrender until it slid back down to her chest.

"Is that a British Army Browning A90l in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?"

Sherlock pulled out the gun. "Both."

Sophie rolled her eyes. The thick layer of Semtex tied to her was seriously heavy, and here these two idiots were, flirting.

"Jim Moriarty. Hi," he sang. "D'you like my assistant? She's not very helpful, is she? In fact, I didn't even _know_ she was helping me with the bombings until she was arrested." He approached her from behind, but she didn't give him the satisfaction of reacting. He tutted. "Funny how those things go."

Sherlock's gaze wandered back over to the red dot on Sophie's chest.

Jim's hands were in his pockets. "Don't be silly. I'm not holding the rifle. Don't like getting my hands dirty."

There was no reply from the detective, and John had resolved to just send disapproving looks towards the criminal across from them.

"I've given you a look, just a teensy glimpse, of what I've got going on out there in the big, bad world. I'm a specialist, you see. Like you!"

"Brilliant," Sherlock exclaimed. "A consulting criminal."

He nodded. "No one ever gets to me. Not even you." Sherlock cocked the gun. "Well, you've come the closest, but now you're in my way."

"Thank you."

"I didn't mean it as a compliment."

"Yes, you did."

Sophie huffed. "Get a room, you two."

"And then there's Miss Sophie Walters," right behind her now, he placed his hands on her shoulders. She tried to wriggle out, but his grin was iron. "One of the only people I've ever asked for help, and she goes against me for you. It's not fair; I found her first."

"Yes, how did you two meet?" Sherlock's gun-arm faltered as Moriarty leaned in closer to Sophie.

Although she couldn't see him, she practically felt the shark's grin on his face. "Should we tell them, Sophie? About our mutual friend?" His arms came over her shoulders and crossed over her throat. "See, Sherlock, she was naughty long before I got to her. I don't want to spoil it, though."

She sucked in a breath as he took his arms back and stepped away.

"The flirting's over, Sherlock, Daddy's had enough now!" His steps echoed, but all Sophie could tell of his movements was the tracking of Sherlock's pistol. "All those little problems, those puzzles… It took me thirty million quid just to get you to come out and play. So, now that you're here. Back off."

Moriarty kept talking about the game, but Sophie had tuned it out.

She tried to widen her eyes until she caught Sherlock's gaze, but he was dead focused on Moriarty. John noticed, though.

 _He doesn't want the USB_ , she mouthed. He frowned, and she mouthed it again, over-enunciating the words.

She felt the air rush against her left cheek less than a second before she heard the high pitched whistle.

Behind her, a bullet cracked into the pool tiles.

Sophie shrunk away, legs barely holding up, and put her hands up again.

"My, my," Moriarty murmured, moving out beside her. She turned slightly to glare defiantly at him. "If you have something to say, please, share it with the group."

She took a deep breath. Sherlock's attention was on her, at least. "He doesn't want the USB." She held herself. No second bullet came.

Moriarty hummed. "Interesting take. You don't even know what's on it. Sherlock?"

"Missile plans," Sherlock said simply.

"So, dear Sophie, why don't I want this USB? Do your best consulting detective impression. Make me proud."

He had taken the USB off Sherlock now, flicking it around his fingers.

"Because you prefer blowing up your victims one at a fucking time?"

He chuckled. "Now, now, you may be right but that wasn't the answer I was going for." He chucked the flash drive into the pool. "They're boring. I could've got those anywhere."

Sophie was sick of this back-and-forth leading nowhere.

"You know what?"

Moriarty played along. "What?"

Sophie smirked at him. "You're not going to blow me up."

"And why is that?"

"If this suits blows up, you do too. Plus, the sniper can just as easily kill me." She slipped off the coat and began undoing the knot that kept the suit wrapped around her.

Nobody moved.

She gently dropped it onto the tiles, and shoved it away with her foot. She rolled her shoulders, appreciating the heavy burden that had been relieved. "Frankly, that was overkill."

Moriarty was giving her a curious look.

"What?"

"Bullets apparently move slower in the water. Now that you're limbered up, shall we test that theory?"

She held up her hands in front of her as he moved towards her. But he was much stronger than her, and one shove sent her flailing into the deep end.

A single firing line of bullets shot around her as she desperately tried to gather her bearings, water all frothed up by activity.

Somehow, she reached the metal ladder in one piece, and heaved herself up and onto the tiles on the edge of the pool, panting. The red dot settled back on her chest, waiting for instruction.

She glared at Moriarty, who smiled placidly back.

"Fuck you."

He pouted in mock offense.

She shook her head. "No, _fuck_ you, thinking you've got power over everyone. Your grand mistake, _Jim_ , is that I've already spent a night in jail and decided I don't fucking like it." In sopping wet clothes and no shoes, she tried her best to look powerful and defiant as she walked directly to the entrance. "So go ahead, shoot me. Have fun playing chess without a fucking board."

He tilted his head, and the calm in his eyes caused her to pause in her stride for a second.

Slowly, she became aware of two dots; one on Sherlock's forehead, the other on John's.

"Well, you've certainly showed your hand there, Sophie."

Blinking through the water dripping in her eyes, she simply stared at him.

"You've joined the side of the angels now; that's fine. But I'll tell you what happens if you three don't stop snooping."

"A painful death, I suppose?" Sophie was starting to catch a chill, so she attempted to make her crossing her arms look defiant rather than an effort to conserve body heat.

He scrunched his face up. "No, not kill you. I mean, I'm going to kill you anyway, someday. I don't want to rush it, though. I'm saving it up for something special. No, no, no. If you don't stop prying, I'll burn you. I'll burn the heart out of you."

"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one."

Moriarty smiled. "Not you, silly. I wasn't very impressed with your antics these past few days. You've let me down." He turned his gaze onto Sophie. "It's time to change the game." The unreadable focus on her disappeared. "Well! I better be off. Sherlock, it was so nice to have a proper chat, but that will be all."

Sherlock re-adjusted his grip on the gun. "What if I was to shoot you right now?"

"Well, then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face," he demonstrated, "'cause I'd be surprised, Sherlock. I really would. And just a teensy bit…disappointed. Do you know what I think? I think I've given you a sneak peek into what obsession truly looks like, and you wouldn't want to take that away, now would you?"

Sherlock tensed, but didn't make a move.

Moriarty glanced one last time at Sophie, who's lips were slowly going blue, and turned to leave. "Ciao, Sherlock."

The gun was kept on him as he walked away. "Catch…you…later," Sherlock murmured.

The reply came from inside the changing rooms, and it echoed off the walls. "No, you won't!"

Silence.

"God, are you alright?" John questioned, finally relaxing now that the imminent threat was gone.

Sophie nodded numbly. Before she could lose her nerve, she set off in the direction Moriarty left in.

Ignoring the shouts from the men behind her, she stormed down to the other end of the pools, not noticing a red dot following her.

Just as she was about to round the corner, a shot rang out, this time landing less than a meter in front of where she stood. Where she would've been standing in a second.

"Sorry, darling!" She groaned. "I'm _so_ changeable!"

Moriarty stepped out, arms out at his sides.

He gave her a sweet smile. "Those friends of yours can't be allowed to continue. They just can't."

She swiveled around to see both John and Sherlock with multiple red lights shining on their chests.

She ran back over to them and looked back at Moriarty in anger.

"You see. You're still picking the boring side, even now. Jealousy has never been a weakness of mine, but possessiveness? _Absolutely_."

"The boring side?" Sherlock lowered his gun at the pile of explosives on the tile floor near Moriarty. "Then I'm sure this move has already crossed your mind."

Moriarty sighed, and waited for Sherlock to make a move.

Sophie, in a flash decision, reached up for the gun. Not expecting it, Sherlock let it get taken away from him.

She threw it into the pool, all three men turning to watch it sink. "No outs," she spat. "No more bombs, no more snipers. The game's no fun if you kill all the other players before it's even started."

Sherlock and John were glaring disbelievingly at her, but Moriarty just placed his hands in his pockets and grinned.

The red dots cut off. Sophie smirked. "Checkmate."

.

And that's it! Phew!

I totally forgot before I rewatched the ep as I wrote, that it ends in the middle of the pool scene! You'll have to wait til next time to see out the end of it unfortunately :).

Please give me a quick review! It doesn't have to be long, correctly spelled, in English, or even legible at all. Anything really means a lot to me.

I'm going back to uni tomorrow so the writing holiday dreamtime is over and I won't be updating three chapters in three days like I have now, but hopefully I can be making some time to get it out once a week, twice maybe.


	4. A Scandal in Belgravia Pt 1

A jangly tune rang out. A familiar song, but tinny.

Sophie and the other two men beside her paused.

Moriarty sighed, scrunching his face up. "Do you mind if I get that?"

Another pause. John's politeness overtook his instinct for danger, and he shrugged. "I don't see why not?"

A click as he answered the phone. "Hello? Yes, of course it is, what do you want?"

Sophie rolled her eyes, trying to keep her shivering under control. The coat she had slipped back on over her clothes was now wet too, and very heavy on her skin. As Moriarty spoke on the phone, her and John shared a 'what-the-hell-just-happened' look, and Sherlock tapped his foot impatiently.

" _We could just go,_ " Soph whispered to John. " _Or at the very least you could let me wear your coat_."

" _Technically, the best thing for a swimmer to do when they're too cold out of the water is to get back in._ "

" _Fuck off._ "

John gave her a cheeky grin as his tall friend elbowed him, still listening in on the phone conversation.

"SAY THAT AGAIN!" John's face paled as Moriarty yelled out, but Sophie just rolled her eyes. "Say that again," the Irish drawl continued, "and know that if you're lying to me, I will find you, and I will _skin_ you." He was holding up the OK sign, but Sophie imagined it wasn't meant in that context.

He finally put the phone away. "I'm afraid we'll have to continue this little game of ours at a later date. Raincheck."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Got a better offer?"

The man simply shrugged, and put the phone back up to his ear, continuing to threaten the voice on the other line and slinking away into the shadows.

"What happened there?" John asked shakily.

Soph opened her mouth but Sherlock bet her to it. "Someone changed his mind; took his interested off us. We need to find out who that mystery caller is."

"Who gives a shit?" Sophie's original response was still pertinent, but Sherlock's look implied he disagreed. "Well," she explained, "this is all just a game to him. As proven earlier, he doesn't want to kill us, he wants to play with us, and, most of all, he wants us to play back. So you can bet your ass that if that call becomes relevant, he'll tell us. Get us to solve a little puzzle or something that reveals it. There's no point wasting our time on something like that. If you want to win this, Sherlock, you've got to start thinking long-term."

The weeks went on. Sherlock and John both testified to Lestrade that Sophie in fact _wasn't_ in cahoots with a criminal, and cases were solved.

Sophie, still living at Baker Street, was forced to change her lifestyle. Hiding things from a genius detective was impossible, and she wasn't interested in exposing her own secrets.

This wasn't as easy as expected; although she was careful not to get too withdrawn, she did find herself taking scalding showers and stubbing toes more often than normal. She had even changed her shaving routine to a waxing one, and to be fair, it was rather addicting.

For a few weeks of her life, things were back to normal. Sherlock and John were slowly rising to celebrity because of the blog, and her workload increased to sifting through almost 20 cases a day. Of course, Sherlock became more picky, forming a system of 5 easy cases for the money, and one 'goldmine' – a case that took some 'actual brainpower' to solve. Today, however, it was John going to a big paddock on the side of a road, some twenty minutes out of town. Sherlock's system led him to pick up the case, but later decided it wasn't interesting enough to actually go.

He was currently sitting in nothing but a white sheet (thankfully expensive enough to be a solid thread-count), skyping to John. "Look," he explained, "this is a 6. I don't leave the flat for anything less than a 7."

Sophie was making them a cup of tea (maybe Mrs. Hudson wasn't their housekeeper, but Sherlock clearly thought someone was) when the doorbell rang.

He ignored it. "I'll get it," she called out to him, sighing. He ignored her.

She padded down the stairs, pausing at the coatrack to cover her flannelette pajamas with Sherlock's massive coat.

Standing by the front door were two burly men in suits. One of them looked her over, pausing heavily on her fluffy bed socks, before addressing her. "We need a Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

"Oh, he's…naked, currently."

They blinked.

"Not because- We aren't- Ah, please give me a minute, we'll be right down."

She shut the door behind her, much to the men's chagrin, and yelled out at Sherlock.

Sherlock, looking away from the laptop at the men who had clearly opened the door again and followed her up, huffed.

"Get some clothes on, Mr. Holmes," one of them commanded in a gruff tone.

Sherlock handed the laptop over to a confused Sophie, and remained sitting in a single white sheet, staring petulantly at the pile of clothes put beside him.

John was still on the other line, asking through a bad connection what was going on. She slipped away down the hall for some quiet, and was about to explain to him what was going on, not that she really knew, when a police officer entered the frame.

John spoke with him for a minute, and turned back to Sophie. "There's a helicopter here to pick me up, what's going on?"

She shrugged half-heartedly. "Two fancy pants bodyguards are here to pick us up too. Who knows. I guess we'll see you when we get there. Wherever _there_ turns out to be."

 _There_ was no other than Buckingham Palace. Soph had been one, on a school trip, but never as deep into the private hallways as they did now.

The pair of them, one in pajamas (they had confiscated the coat, much to her embarrassment) and one in bed linens, were led to a large and lush meeting room with two upholstered couches facing each other in the center.

Sherlock made himself comfortable. The two guards had left the clothes, although gave no indication as to where the man was supposed to get dressed.

The pair looked up when a familiar face was led into the room. John walked over to the couch, perching awkwardly between the two.

Soph and John shared a grin at the absurdity of the situation, and then he realized what Sherlock was wearing. Or rather, _wasn't_ wearing.

The group fell into a fit of giggling.

John cleared his throat. "Buckingham Palace, huh? I am seriously fighting the urge to steal an ashtray."

"What are we even doing here? My goodness, Sherlock, deduce it!" Sophie leaned across John to stare at Sherlock in wonderment. "Are we meeting the Queen?"

A solitary figure appeared in the corridor, finely dressed, down to an umbrella in his right hand.

"Apparently, yes," Sherlock murmured, and the two men broke into a fit again, but this time Sophie didn't join in.

She now had to face the very real possibility that Mycroft had brought them her to reveal some truths. Truths she knew Sherlock and John wouldn't take too well.

"Couldn't you two just behave for once," the man chided.

"I'm sorry, Mycroft, but I write a blog about crimes he solves, and he can't even be trusted to wear pants. It's worth considering lowering your expectations."

"The hiker, yes? I glanced at the police report; it's obvious, surely?"

"Of course," Sherlock muttered, John giving him a disbelieving look.

Mycroft stared him down as he pointed to the clothes. "Sherlock, we are in Buckingham Palace, the heart of the British nation. For God's sake, put on your trousers."

"What for?"

"Your client." Apparently pajamas were acceptable enough attire for this client, as Mycroft hadn't given her a second glance since entering the room.

"And my client is?"

"Important, in the extreme. And entirely anonymous." An unfamiliar man entered the scene, shaking hands warmly with the older Mr. Holmes.

"And may I apologize for the state of my little brother, and his assistant. Entirely immature." Sophie twitched her nose awkwardly, fiddling with the piped hem of her flannelette top.

"Occupational hazard, I'm sure." He introduced himself to John, expressing his employer's appreciation for the blog, which brought a smug tinge to John's cheeks.

"Now, Mr. Holmes the Younger. You look much taller in photographs."

"I take the precaution of a good coat and a short friend." The smug aura left John immediately.

"And, of course, the infamous Sophie Walters." She narrowed her eyes at the word infamous, but held out a hand to shake. "I'm sure you'll be of much use to this case, with your…specific insight." Before he could grasp it, she let her hand fall.

The man was ready to retort before Sherlock interrupted. "I don't do anonymous clients, it's an unnecessary difficulty and too much work. Good morning," he went to leave, but a well-placed shoe caused the sheet to be tugged off him.

Thankfully he could it at the last moment, but it was more butt than she had ever wanted to see from her employer.

"This is a matter of national importance, brother, _grow up_!"

"Take your foot off my sheet."

"Or what?"

A second's pause. "Or I'll just walk away."

Sophie groaned. "For the sake of the Her Highness, Mycroft, just let it go."

Both Holmes men turned to glare at her derisively. She sniffed, and sat back down delicately.

"Who. Is. My. Client?"

"Take a look at where you are, Sherlock, and make a deduction. You are being employed by the highest in the land, now for God's sake, put your clothes on!"

Sophie let her displeasure be known by tapping her fingers on the arm of the sofa and sighing heavily every few seconds. Sherlock was now dressed, as was John, but since the guards hadn't brought any of her clothes along, she was forced to change into a spare cleaner's uniform. It was about three sizes too big, and completely boxy. She had to take her hair tie out of her ponytail to tie the pinafore up at the back so as to avoid an inappropriate view. She just thanked Britain that so much money went into the heating bill. Nobody sleeps in a bra, and she was seriously living on the edge here.

Mycroft was pouring some tea, and the man beside him began to lay his case. "My employer has a problem."

Mycroft continued. Nobody touched their tea. "This situation is of a delicate, potentially criminal nature. And in this hour of need, dear brother, your name has risen."

"All the Kings horses and all the Kings men, and you come to me?"

"People talk. This is a matter of highest security, and hence highest trust."

John raised his eyebrows at that, but chose not to comment.

Out of a briefcase came a glossy photograph. "What do you know of this woman?"

Sophie's heart dropped, and she clutched her hands together in her lap to stop them shaking.

"Nothing whatsoever."

"Shall we take it to the group?" Mycroft looked at her, but she didn't return the glance. "Well then, you should all be paying more attention. She's participated in two scandals this year, including ending the marriage of a prominent novelist, exposing both the participants separately."

"Who is she?"

"Irene Adler. Professionally known as The Woman."

"Professionally?"

Mycroft smiled at John, but Soph knew his gaze was still locked on her. "There are many names for what she does. She prefers dominatrix."

"Dominatrix…" Sherlock looked closer at the photo.

"Don't be alarmed, it's just sex."

"Sex doesn't alarm me."

"How would you know?" Soph glanced up at Sherlock, who was trying to hide his hurt. Mycroft continued. "She provides recreational scolding."

John laughed in disbelief. Sophie's veins were filled with icy water, she could feel the color leave her face. Better that than it blooming in embarrassment, she figured.

The Iceman chuckled. "Some people enjoy that sort of thing, you know."

"I'm assuming this Adler woman has some compromising photographs?" Sherlock stared at Mycroft. "Of whom?"

The man started. "We can't tell you at this time."

John frowned. "You can't tell us anything?"

"Well," Mycroft allowed, "we can tell you it's a young person. A young female person."

Goosebumps began rising on her arms. She only hoped the other two men on her couch didn't notice.

"How many photographs?"

"A considerable amount. She did go quite often, it seems."

"I assume this young lady and Miss Adler are together in these photographs, in a number of undignified…"

Sherlock's voice began to fade out. Nervously, Sophie raised her eyes to Mycroft. Still listening to Sherlock, he turned slightly towards her. She raised her eyebrows in question; he shook his head almost imperceptibly.

Relief. Her hearing came back, the shudder in her nerves slowed and she let out the breath she didn't know she was holding.

"…what case? Pay her now, in full."

"She doesn't want any money. She got in touch, informed us she had the photographs, but had no intention of using them to extort either money or favor."

Sherlock had a grin on his face now. "A power play with the most powerful family in the nation? Ooh, that _is_ a dominatrix, this is getting interesting. Text me the details of where she's staying." He got up to leave.

"And you'll get results, then?"

"I'll get you the photographs. I'll need resources, of course. Could I have a box of matches? A cigarette lighter will do."

"I don't smoke."  
"Your employer does."

The man took a step closer. "We have taken many precautions to ensure that this fact is hidden, Mr. Holmes."

"I'm not the Commonwealth."

John shook the man's hand one last time. "That's about as modest as he gets. Good day, gentlemen."

That same day, their taxi pulled up outside a residential area.

Sophie had been dreading this moment. She tried to get out of it before they even left, but Sherlock hadn't forgotten about Mycroft's remarks. Of course, he thought her 'special insight' was female intuition.

At the very least, she had ditched the beige uniform in favor of a knit dress. Although she'd deny it, she was dressing up for the occasion.

"Alright, we're two streets away, but this'll do. Punch me, John."

"Punch you?"

"Yes, punch me. Didn't you hear me?"

He considered this. "Well, I always hear 'punch me' when you're speaking, but it's usually subtext. Why exactly are you asking me to punch you?"

"A disguise, John. If I pretend to be a victim of a mugging, it'll get me into the house."

Sophie furrowed her eyebrows. "Why don't we just knock on the door and ask to come in?"

He stared at her. "Don't be ridiculous, that won't work."

"Yeah, it will. Loser's on the next grocery run."

He narrowed his eyes at her. "Fine."

She started off towards the house.

The two men jogged to catch up.

"Wait," Sherlock called out, "how did you know this was the right direction?"

Her step faltered. "Uh…" She glanced around frantically. "The other way is a cul-de-sac. I took a guess."

John laughed, and nudged her on the way past. "Hey, that was pretty good, you ever consider being a detective?"

She tried to fight the grin. "Shut up."

As usual, Kate answered the door. "Hey, Sophie."

She choked. This was a mistake. The men were staring at her in confusion. "Oh my god, Kate? From high-school?" She laughed nervously, giving Kate crazy-eyes as the universal code to shut the fuck up. "Small world, huh? We're actually here to see Irene Adler. Does she live here?"

Kate gave her an odd look. "You've come to the right place. The living room is down the hall, feel free to take a seat." John quietly excused himself to the bathroom. "She'll be with you two shortly."

This time, Sophie allowed Sherlock to find his way to the living room. They both sat down, and it was only a few seconds before Irene's familiar voice echoed into the room.

"So strange that I have visitors, I wasn't aware we had an appointment."

Sophie glanced up and froze. The sight itself wasn't unusual, but in the context, seeing Irene completely naked was a shock.

Sherlock was similarly mute.

She grinned and walked in. "You haven't come round in months, Sophie, was it something I did?"

"No ma'am," Sophie answered automatically, before realizing what she did.

Sherlock gave her a more confused reaction that he gave Irene.

The Woman laughed. "It is so hard to keep up appearances when you've had a fright. Does the whip not do it for you anymore?"

No words came to her mouth. It didn't take Sherlock long to work out the situation. Thankfully, he chose not to comment, although his mouth still hung open.

"Now, we're both revealing ourselves. And, of course, it's nice to meet you for the first time, Sherlock Holmes."

He swallowed hard. "Irene Adler."

She leaned into him. Soph pushed down the illogical stab of jealousy that caused. God, she missed Irene.

"Those cheekbones," Irene cooed, "I could cut myself slapping one. Would you like me to try?"

"I suppose I should ask Sophie first if it hurts or not."

She sucked in an involuntary gasp. Irene turned back to her, and smiled. She slowly leaned in. "If we let him watch, I'll give it to you for free," she murmured, one hand coming to rest on her shoulder, the other on her face, blood-red lips coming closer until Sophie's eyes fluttered shut.

Their lips had barely touched when a strange choking noise broke them slightly apart. Sophie looked up; the hand on her cheek sliding across her face as she turned to face John.

He cleared his throat. "I've missed something, haven't I?"

Sherlock patted the space beside him. "Sophie is a regular customer of Irene's, do keep up."

Irene watched the man walk around her, studiously avoiding looking at her bare skin. The woman settled for a quick peck on Sophie's cheek before standing back up again.

While both men's attention was on Irene, Sophie softly brought her hand up to the red mark left on her cheek and quietly smiled.

"Well, if you'd like to have some tea, I can call the maid." Irene curled herself up into an armchair.

"We had some at the Palace."

"I know," she retorted.

"I, uh, I had tea at the palace too, if anyone's wondering." John stammered nervously. "Could you put something on, please?"

"Why? Feeling exposed?"

"I don't think John knows where to look."

"On the contrary. I do quite like the look of your dress, though, Sophie. Surely you don't need underwear _and_ clothing. Seems selfish."

Sophie glanced back and forth between Irene and the two men. Hesitantly, she grabbed the hem of the dress and went to pull it up.

Irene laughed, and she paused. "Still as obedient as ever, little Sophie."

Sophie twitched her nose, smoothed down the dress, and stood up. "It might be better if I just wait outside."

"You could always wait _inside_ , Sophie. I'm sure I won't be long."

She shook her head, not finding the words to respond. She simply sat down as Sherlock handed over his coat to Irene.

"Tell me about this hiker case, then," Irene said, swathed in the dark fabric.

"That story's not been on the news yet. How did you know about that?"

"I know one of the policemen. Well, I know what he _likes_."

"Oh. And you like policemen?"

"I like detective stories. And detectives. And detective's _assistants_ , it seems. Brainy is the new sexy."

Sherlock blurted out some gibberish, before clearing his throat and starting again. "Blow to the back of the head, nothing to do with the car backfiring."

"Then how was he murdered?"

"He wasn't murdered. He was an excellent sportsman, fan of foreign travel, and I know the photographs we're after are in this very room."

"Ah, a business call. How did you know that?"

He grinned. "So they _are_ in this room. Thank you for confirming that. John, man the door; let no one in."

According to their preconceived plan, John left the room, shutting the door behind him.

As discussed, Sherlock engaged Irene in conversation, speaking about the case, while Sophie looked around the room for any sort of hiding place or secret cavity.

The room consisted of a few couches and a table, and not much else. The fireplace on the far side had a massive mirror above it, gilded and clearly expensive. But it wasn't properly fixed to the wall. Sophie's 'female intuition' told her that it came away from the wall on a hinge to reveal a safe. She had seen this safe at work before, when Irene would occasionally go to it between clients, when Sophie was either arriving or leaving. She caught Sherlock's eye, mouthing 'mirror' when Irene wasn't looking.

A fire alarm rang out, John's work. Automatically, Sophie looked over at Irene. As Sherlock expected, she glanced towards the photographs: the mirror.

Sherlock shared a look with Sophie. The pair of them grinned.

.

Because this episode is so Irene-centric (whoop whoop!), there's a lot of additional content being added in. This is why I'm choosing to split the episode in two, so I can go fully into the ins and outs of their relationship.

Please let me know what you think! I'm dying to hear.


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